Things I'll Never Say
by Akishira
Summary: A collection of FMA character studies. Nov update: Sheska and Lust added Reviews much lusted after. Updated twice after a damn long hiatus @ @
1. Chink In The Armor

Chink In The Armor (A Study of Alphonse Elric)  
  
He is the calmer brother, always has been. Not as quick as his brother perhaps, but steadier, surer, able to hold to his limits when he comes across something challenging. Where Edward is incendiary, Alphonse is the anchor, the grounding influence, and in a suit of armor he seems to symbolize his very nature.  
  
Sometimes he looks at Edward, at Auntie Pinako, at Winry (with an odd double-thump of the impression of his heart that he imagines he feels, sometimes) and thinks, This is my family. But Mother isn't here. And the little empty spot, the disturbing chink in his armor, remains, scraping and creaking to announce its presence even when he is quite sure he oiled all his joints the week before.  
  
It hurts.  
  
It hurts in a way that his divorced body can never feel.  
  
And _Ed_, he worries so much for his niisan, for all the crosses that Edward Elric takes upon himself for his younger brother because of his guilt. _Don't worry. I'll bear this crown of thorns alone, little brother. It's the least I can do for you.  
  
_ _Don't leave me alone_, he wants to shout. _I'm right here. I'm not dead yet. Give me some of the burden, let me do some of the work. I want to do this for you._ But he never does, because he knows his niisan too well, and he knows that all the bluster, all the confidence, is just a mask because Ed feels guilty inside, because that nagging feeling that he _shouldn't have done this, should have done that_, comes back again and again and again.  
  
It does hurt. And sometimes, when he can't be calm, he goes out into the wind and rain and darkness that he cannot feel or fear anymore.  
  
This pain can't be shared, only carried alone.   
  
And Ed, bless his miserly heart, can't touch it. That's just fine with Al, anyway.

-------  
Written after entirely too much angst... entirely too much angst. Al's first because he's one of the easiest people to think of when the word 'angst' comes up. Who's next? Let's see...


	2. Heavy Arms

Heavy Arms (A Study Of Edward Elric)  
  
Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist.  
  
Ed, son of Trisha Elric.  
  
Ed, Alphonse's older brother.  
  
Edward is small but his heart is so big that it pushes other people back, so full and heavy that the smallest prick would threaten to release all the hate and guilt and self-loathing that he hoards inside himself like poisonous little jewels.  
  
It's not that he's wrong, inside. It's just that he doesn't like shouting at Alphonse for real, doesn't like the hurt expression that his conscience conjures for him even if the suit of armor can brook no change in expression. And already he knows that he's let Al down too many times, from the time he told Al _Mom will be all right_ to the time he watched his brother drawn shrieking into the array that had gone so horribly wrong, and time again after that, through towns and cities and villages when Al would pick up a kitten and say _Ne, niisan, can I keep it_ and Edward would say _no_ because he hated kittens.  
  
No explanation for it.  
  
Edward Elric does not like things he cannot understand.  
  
_ I'm a scientist. Scientists aren't allowed to believe in inexplicable things like God.  
_  
But, underneath the determined atheist, _if there is no God then what is there left to believe? That Mom died for nothing? That Al's a walking suit of armor because I screwed up? But I **didn't** screw up, and..._ And he never does say that out loud. He knows that it's too easy to spill some secrets in front of Al and yet when the crunch comes, Ed can't bring himself to say anything but _sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry.  
_  
There are too many things to say.  
  
Sometimes he feels that he's not only carrying the weight of the aching automail alone.  
  
Maybe, with the Philosopher's Stone, he might be able to make it disappear...  
  
-----

Oh yeaaah. Two fics in as many days. And before you ask, no it will not all be angst because I'm thinking of a drabble for a few of the more remarkable, shall we say, animals in the series. Like Alexander, Nina's dog... wait, that part was a tragedy too...


	3. Clockwork Heart

Clockwork Heart (A Study Of Winry Rockbell)  
  
Her first love is automail, and everything else comes secondary. The neat immutability of gears and pistons, the biomech accuracy of the nerve splicings, all of them like pieces of a grand, beautiful puzzle under her greasy fingers.  
  
She still loves automail as much as she did when she was a baby, fascinated by the different sounds that it made, that others never seemed to hear- it made her feel special. It still does; it's like a secret language, the machines whispering harshly to themselves of their condition, their age, the people they've seen, the people they rush for. She feels privileged to be able to understand what they say; well, most of the time anyway.  
  
This might sound strange- she's puzzled over it ever since it was installed- but she never could tell the condition of Ed's automail just from the sound. To her exasperated mind it is as if it leached the personality of its bullheaded owner, shouting its fine condition to the world while rust and grit attacks it under the shiny metal sheathing. That's why she greets him with yelling, with swearing, with smarting reprimand. She worries for Ed, worries for his automail, because he's not so easily read.  
  
Al, that's a different box of bolts entirely. He manages to give the impression of feeling, real _emotion_, that tends to make people temporarily forget that he really resides within an empty suit of armor. Where Ed hides his wounds deep down inside, Al lets them out before they fester. She always thought he was the more sensible of the brothers anyway. Edward might be in the limelight all the time, but it's Al's steady intelligence that gets them through the day-to-day situations. As their childhood friend, she can almost guarantee that time hasn't changed this.  
  
So maybe she doesn't see them a lot, and maybe Ed never writes to her at all (and neither does Al), and maybe she worries for them- she tells herself it's just for the sake of her precious automail- and maybe, just maybe, she might feel more than friendship for one of them.  
  
Until then, she'll keep what she can clean and safe, til the rare occasion that Ed comes back or she goes to him (usually with some part or other of his body in pieces) when she can see them again and feel the bolt deep within her chest loosen itself. For now, she listens to the soft, gentle ticking of her clockwork heart like an underlying harmony of her life's melody, and wonders when the requiem will become an exultation.  
  
----

No angst here, I've had enough of it! Probably will make a reappearance next chapter, oh well.

Hmm, I'm writing a fic a day. That's a new record even for me... Look out for the next study tomorrow! Who's up next? (I don't know!) Someone review and tell me!


	4. Old Gold

Old Gold (A Study Of Pinako Rockbell)  
  
She didn't always used to be called Pinako Rockbell, you know. One of the brightest minds in the business, a queen amongst automail engineers- the Bolt Goddess, they used to call her in mixed reverence and envy, Pinako Brandenholt, wild young genius, able to work miracles with things that others thought no more than heaps of scrap iron.  
  
Ah, those were the days, and she still picks them up and polishes them occasionally, watching the bright sunlight flash incandescently off the clear steel memories. She can remember when she was little, when she grew a little older, and _oh_, here's when she set up shop in Rush Valley- all male attention on her, thanks very much- and that's when she met _him_, Taver Rockbell, an all-but-nameless alchemist who nevertheless wooed and won her with a passion that she had previously only experienced with automail.  
  
She still misses him. Winry looks nothing like her rough-edged grandfather. Yet it is nothing but stubborn pride for her still-perfect memory that keeps her from putting old yellowed photos of him everywhere. Oh, she remembers why she doesn't put pictures of herself anywhere- even in her youth, she was a bit of a picture-phobe- because in her youth she was tall and strong and beautiful, and look at her now? All that's left of that glorious past is a shriveled, dumpy little midget of a woman, with hair that sticks out like a bottlebrush and a liking for old, fragrant tobacco. Her eyes are dim, her hands no longer grip the tools as tightly as she used to, and even Den follows her around anxiously.  
  
Sometimes, the dumpy little mechanic lies in bed and thinks, _I want to go see Taver. One last time. And Keiji, my sweet son, I want to hug you and tell you it's okay, mom's with you now, and where's your wife, what's her name? Dalia? I'm so sorry I let you go out there. But then, I couldn't have stopped you...you're just like your father.  
  
Just like your father.  
_  
But then, she's an automail engineer to the very marrow, and hers is a hardy breed. Each time she allows herself these thoughts and then heaves herself out of bed, packing them firmly away like she clears the tools from her workbench.  
  
Edward, that imprudent young whelp, will be calling in soon. She knows it's not his intention to call, and to him he only calls out of necessity, but she built his automail and she's always ready to scold him for all the trouble he puts himself through. After all, there was a reason why she tried to dissuade him from joining the military. That's no place for a feisty young blood like him, no place for someone so idealistic he tried to raise his dead mother, no place for someone who loves Alphonse as much as Ed does.  
  
She _tried_. She let him go anyway. That's what grandmothers do best.  
  
Still, somewhere under the dull tarnish of old age, the automail of her soul still glitters defiantly, like the shine of good, old gold that keeps its shine with a minimum of polish. There are still people who remember the name of Pinako Rockbell. And this old lady won't go without a damn fight worthy of her long, hard-won history.  
  
----

Argh... after Winry, it just seemed so natural to move on to Pinako. But Mustang is next, I promise! (wibble) Stay tuned for the next instalment...


	5. Leadership Material

Leadership Material (A Study Of Roy Mustang)  
  
_Taisa_.  
  
He doesn't like being bored, doesn't like wasting time when he could be carving out his next step to absolute dominion over the pathetic army. But he's bored anyway, kicking his booted feet up on the heavy desk and absently nudging a stack of papers with the polished black toe, stuck by a sudden sense of pure, unalloyed _ennui_.  
  
It comes more and more often these days, when Fullmetal isn't around to annoy. But then, he refuses to admit to himself that Fullmetal anchors his days, now.  
  
_Taisa, your coffee_.  
  
She stands by his elbow as he unseeingly surveys his petty paper domain, scented with the aromatic fragrance of her signature brew. And so she has stood for longer than he cares to remember, always silently by his side.  
  
He knows he should be grateful, but somehow he's past that. They're past that. There is no need for open admissions or exhibitions of loyalty; her attendance on him is like a force of nature- elemental. Guaranteed.  
  
_Taisa, stop slacking off_.  
  
Insouciant, as always, he unfolds and rearranges himself properly, taking the cup she offers him. Thanks. She eyes him coolly for a moment, puts the files down and points commandingly at the stacks of unfinished work. No words needed- if she said it everyday, there would be enough spit to fill a water tank- so she points and he understands that, as always, she wants him to get things done ASAP.  
  
Whatever was it about paperwork that makes people into leadership material? He muses this each day, with each paper that passes through his hands that he commits to memory, with every sand of his precious time tick- tick-ticking through an hourglass with far too big a waist.  
  
_Hawkeye-  
_  
She halts, clear eyes questioning. _Taisa?  
  
-What would you do if I quit? What would you do if I was executed? What would you do if you had to choose between my life and yours? How long are you prepared to wait til I become Generalissimo?-  
_  
_...nothing...  
  
_He can't say it. For all the things left unsaid between them, this is not best left unsaid, but simply unsayable. Maybe it's an aversion to the truth, or perhaps he puts too much stock by Hawkeye's tried-and-true loyalty, but he keeps closing his mouth on the fateful questions.  
  
And, as Hawkeye leaves, shutting the office door decorously behind her, he buries his focus in the numbing piles of undone work, wondering when he will ever be more than just 'leadership material'. Perhaps someday, someday...  
  
...when there are no longer questions to be answered...  
  
----

Nooooo! Mustang-taisa, forgive mee! (wails) I didn't mean for you to be so angsty... I wanted a comedy piece, but the women just wouldn't show! So... bear with me...  
  
Next up: Hawkeye, of course!  
  
Roy: (staring at author) I could just snap my fingers and-  
  
Wait! No! My LAPTOP!  
  
Roy: And get rid of all the paperwork, of course. Alchemy's got to be good for something.  
  
Anyway... deviated a bit from the style of the other drabbles, comments anyone?


	6. Aiming For Perfection

Aiming For Perfection (A Study of Riza Hawkeye)  
  
If there ever was a pictorial dictionary, Riza's photo (brisk and unsmiling, uniform impeccably straight) would probably be firmly under the 'EFFICIENCY' listing. After all, it takes someone with a close to a hundred percent efficiency rating to get the Taisa off his recalcitrant butt. And Riza is nothing if not efficient. She has to be.  
  
On hindsight, following a different commander would have been much easier on her resources, maybe... but not as fulfilling. That's Riza, always up for a challenge. It still makes her smile at times, as the Taiza and Fullmetal make a disruptive fuss when they meet, a corner of her mouth tugged upward by the reluctant acknowledgement in their voices. _Men. Always trying to prove themselves_. But it would probably drift past their ears fruitlessly, so she just exhales a long-suffering breath in the privacy of her mind, occasionally allowing herself a shake of the head, and carries on with her work.  
  
Busy, busy, busy. Probably no one (other than her) really understands how busy the East Department is, but the young Chuu-i lets them get away with their ignorance. After all, she enjoys the challenge, and as long as the Taisa gets a minimum amount of work done, Riza lets him sneak a few minutes off every so often to enjoy the freedom that he takes to be hard- earned. No harm in letting him think he is _soo_ clever.  
  
Men.  
  
All right, so she takes a _little_ more enjoyment in watching him get sunk under the piles of work than is strictly polite. But she consoles herself, looking at the obsessively tidy stacks of paperwork on her desk- rivaling the Taisa's in hulk and only this size because of her efficiency (or else it would have been LARGER)- she deserves the entertainment.  
  
There is something to be said for the hardworking. In Riza's opinion, it is 'the hardworking shall rule the world.'  
  
Discreetly, of course.  
  
In many ways it's like the perfect shot that dangles enticingly just within her reach each moment she spends within the firing range. With every round fired, she can march the bullet holes in a nearly perfect line from the outside to the inside of the target, very nearly mathematical in her precision.  
  
And then without a pause, that final inrush of motion, her eye fixed firmly down the line of her heavy revolver- _there_.  
  
There's Hawkeye-chuui for you. Always aiming for perfection.  
  
----

This one was fun to write because I got to make fun of Mustang. (snarkle) And after reading the Hawkeye/BarryTheChopper interaction in scanlations (where she acts completely different out of uniform) I just couldn't resist. Sorry, Taisa!  
  
On a side note, 'Chuu-i' is Hawkeye's rank, First Lieutenant. Since I was already calling Mustang 'Taisa', I thought I might as well go the whole hog for the sake of uniformity. For people who want to be pedantic about it, a complete (or at least it really seems close) listing of rank in Japanese and English can be found at scimitarsmile.com.   
  
Next: Um... Black Hayate?


	7. It's A Dog's Life

It's A Dog's Life (A VERY BRIEF Study Of Black Hayate)  
  
In all fairness, he hates the name. It's too long and She takes too long to say it. He always runs up to Her before the second sound reaches Her lips, tugging Her pants, bounding about Her boots, trying to get Her to come and play.  
  
Sometimes She does, sometimes She doesn't.  
  
But he loves Her anyway.  
  
Even if She does dangle him most of the time...  
  
It isn't much, he's not a combat dog like the others in the kennels (yet...), but it's a good life.  
  
It's a dog's life, after all.  
  
----  
  
Cute! So cute! Even if I don't like dogs... and he has a lousy name...  
  
To Aroe: Out Of Uniform!Riza can be found in Chapters 29 and 30. And various instances where Riza is riding herd on Mustang can be found throughout the manga. Go Riza!  
  
Next:... I don't know. Review, quick! I need a name for the next chapter so I can post it up tomorrow... 


	8. Hiding From The Light oslight spoilerso

Hiding From The Light (A Study Of Shou Tucker)

He's really not all that bad, at least not to his young daughter. He's a good father, he was a good husband, and he provides well enough to support him and Nina.

Perhaps his only self-admitted fault is that he's too absorbed in his work, and it only makes him more upset the harder the obstacles he finds. Each failure brings pain, fear of disappointment, fear that the next time Evaluation comes up, he will be judged and found wanting. At that time, all his 'reputation' as 'the authority on chimerae' will be worth less than a common wayside stone, and just as easily kicked aside.

Damn that Fullmetal brat. Damn him. The kid probably didn't ever have to work for his license, skipped entirely around the equivalent trade of wasted years for enough skill to perform an impressive enough feat in front of the Dai-soutou. Wasted years, wasted time...

Wasted spouse, even.

_ Niamh__… _

_You were the light of my life, you know? And it would have been perfect, perfect when you made that last sacrifice for me. So I and Nina could eat. So there would have been food on the table. As long as you lived and I could prove, I could prove that my work was _worth something_¸ that you and I were worth something and I LOVED YOU._

_But you wouldn't live, you wouldn't try to live._

_ "I want to die," you kept saying in that thin low voice again and again and again. And eventually you died, but at least you hung on long enough for me to get my license, at least you spoke enough for them to believe I'd really made some kind of a breakthrough when all I did was change a talking human into a stunted monster._

_ I swore I'd never do it again._

_ For a while everything was good and I had time to play with Nina, and I had the leisure to experiment with other animals, try to duplicate what I'd done with you. I tried everything. _

_ Everything._

_ And now, now what? I've used Nina too. And Alexander, he and you were inseparable, I remember that. Look at her, she's beautiful. Just like her mommy. She loves me, don't you, Nina?_

_ …Why don't they understand, why don't they understand? I had to. I had to._

_ …I'm still hiding from the light, you know. Still hiding from the light._

_ Why don't they understand?_

And as the man approaches, he knows that the light has come to judge him.

As the alchemy cuts through his body, his hands begin to raise, hiding, still hiding. But this time there will be no more hiding.

----

Ooookay, I'm officially back on the angst trip. Actually, Tucker wasn't even _close_ on my hit list, but a reviewer requested some 'villain' action, so here he is. Even if I don't think he's a bad guy personally, just desperate, but hey… you take it from here. Oh, and I'm basing my stuff off the manga principally… so Tucker _did_ get killed when Scar got him…

Next up, also on request: King Bradley. You might know him as the Fuhrer.

BIG BIG BIG spoilers for chapter twenty five onwards from here, I think. You can read on if you want the juice regardless of spoiler, and if you don't… I'll put a spoiler warning in the chapter title, so you can skip over what you haven't gotten to yet.

Look, I'm reader-friendly! (sparkles) So please review!


	9. Perfect Vision ohints of MAJOR SPOILERo

Perfect Vision (A Study of King Bradley)

Everyone knows him as the somewhat eccentric Dai-soutou with the somewhat eccentric name- yes, his first name really _is _King, thanks very much-, easily recognizable via the black eyepatch he sports, a 'by-product of the last two wars', he claims with that cynical smile on his lips. Family man, too: a wife and a son, who love him to bits. He loves them back, has loved them ever since they became 'family'.

Insomuch as anyone of _his kind _can love anything.

You see, King Bradley has a secret.

He's not really blind.

And there are things he's been subject to see that nobody should ever see, that one flawed, perfect eye so discerning that he hides it behind the eyepatch that has become habit, for him.

_But it still_ _looks through the leather, it still sees the world, and no obstruction can hide the truth from its merciless glare._

It hurts, having to see the truth all the time.

To be honest, this eye, this vision, virtually earned him the title of Dai-Soutou. And to be brutally frank, if he'd had a choice, he wouldn't even want to be leader of a system that everything he was as a father protested against. But he can't get free, not _his kind_, no, he can't get free. His wife and son wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell- cliché but accurate.

There are things that nobody should see, not even one of _his._ _They_ glory in it, the carnage, the destruction, but he keeps his gaze unflinching because of stubborn, unyielding pride.

It's always been his one fatal failing, his pride. His great Sin... in addition to the other one which has shaped his life, his purpose. Both of them dictate his actions in tandem; if it is not one Sin, it is the Other, and they do not allow him to hide from himself.

Often he wants to divorce himself from this hole of his own digging, trying to warn the children (_they play with fire, especially Fullmetal, playing with fire they would be better off not tasting) _but always, always, his Master-Father calls, and his pride does not allow him to do other than go with the last semblances of dignity, whatever his name might be.

Pride. That is indeed his pillar and his downfall.

His perfect vision does not allow for lies, not even to himself.

----

Aaaand again, more angst. (I'm starting to sense a pattern here.) I don't think you'll get major spoilers out of this, but all the same, that spoiler warning is going up.

(31/03/2006 Edit: Changed some details in the story to reflect recent manga developments… and I have successfully squashed my fangirl-author complex which has been insisting that it's fine as-is in fanon terms. In the interests of being correct, however, I have changed it… although it still flows a little strangely. Reviews would be much appreciated. Who knows… if the manga comes up with another twist, I might have to rewrite the entire chapter. (NOOOOOOO;;))

Next up (yet again on Reviewers Request): Louis Armstrong (heheheheh…)


	10. Honor And Duty

Honor And Duty (A Study Of Alex Louis Armstrong)

            He is, quite possibly, one of the kindest, most well-intentioned, and annoying people in the East District. Among others. It's understandable, really; the Armstrongs are, well… strong of _presence._ It seems to be some kind of genetic thing; they project their personalities so strongly out onto their target audience that the audience finds them frankly oppressive and irritating.

            The world should be grateful that the Armstrongs are generally quite amiable. If they ever got it into their heads to rule the world, it is entirely possible that the empire of Amestris would succumb to their intense force of personality (as well as the strange hallucinatory sense of mysterious spotlights and alarming sparkles). As it is… well, they are, thankfully, not a large family, though proud of their continuing dynasty -all alchemists- a constant source of wonder as to their genetic potency.

(It has been speculated that if the Armstrongs ever produced a large brood, the numbers of alchemists would potentially explode, but nobody has ever been brave enough, or insane enough, to try.)

            Alex Louis Armstrong is truly the heir of his particular bloodline. Anybody who has spent more than twenty minutes alone with him, such as the Fullmetal Alchemist Edward Elric (who survived a number of weeks alone with him, a feat unmatched by any), can attest to this fact. It is one of the continuing mysteries of the universe- how each generation of Armstrongs is so kind and good and _incredibly nerve-wracking._

            This particular Armstrong, however, might be somewhat different from the rest of his eccentric ancestry.

            Against all expectation, Alex Louis became a State Alchemist, officially enlisted in the Army, and maintained the rank of Major. His parents, benevolently opposed to the violence inherent in his career choice, nevertheless did their best to support him. Not many people bother the Armstrongs, and in return the Armstrongs do not bother many people. It maintains the not-inconsiderable status quo of the Armstrong finances. This is one of the reasons why Alex Louis does not really care if he is promoted or not.

            At first he joined the army because he was young and filled with the youthful ideals of 'duty towards one's country'. He felt that, as one who did not fear death, it was what he owed to his country.  Then, as the Dark Times came, young Alex found that there are, indeed, some things worse than death.

            It might include signing one's soul off on a piece of paper, and one's freedom of will along with it.

            Never had an Armstrong questioned his innate sense of honor. To many of that noble breed, black and white are clearly cut; the Ishvar Annihilation Campaign changed that. Alex, now a grown man, realized what he had submitted himself to, and what he could never now erase from his identity.

            Duty demanded obedience. Honor demanded rebellion. Both of them he denied, time and time again as his alchemy claimed life after fragile, budding life.

            That is why he seems especially passionate about emotional relationships, so compassionate about lost causes. All that he is, all that he _stands for_, he sees within those insignificant-seeming gestures.

            _Can't you see that THIS IS WHAT'S IMPORTANT IN LIFE, THIS IS WHAT WE SHOULD PROTECT, not some petty military promotion, not more wealth and power and whatever? Or do you simply refuse to _see_ anything? _

            _... THIS SICKENS ME._

            But Honor and Duty order him to silence, and he obeys. What else is left for an Armstrong, but those two jealous mistresses?

----

That isn't really turn out the way I expected it… I was aiming for something that reflected the events of the raid on the Devil's Nest, as well as a brief reflection on the Fight On! Gaiden where Alex's family are introduced. I think I did the latter quite tolerably, the latter somewhat inadequately… Review and tell me what you think? As well as any requests on future chapter Character Studies…__


	11. The World Is Not Enough ominor spoilero

The World Is Not Enough (A Study Of Greed)

Money, women, power. They call to him like a tempting reward just out of reach, falling like card castles as he grasps them, spurring him onward to desire more. More and more, that nothing can satisfy. No wonder he is considered Gluttony's closest brother.

No wonder he cannot be anything but his own person.

Greed does not gain anything by simply _serving_; that implies a restriction of movement, a forced content. And Greed is never content; even the world is not enough to satisfy the chasm in his soul. If homunculi had a soul, Greed would be their representative. After all, desire springs from within; if there is nothing within, there would be no need to fill the gap, no desire to replace something that has never been lost.

Maybe it is this proximity to the human soul that attracts other souls to him; not peons, but friends, other misfits, who are content to let him direct them. All right, so maybe they do fill the capacity of henchmen- every villain needs henchmen, dammit!- but he doesn't talk down to them, ever; he makes pointed suggestions instead. They will never betray him, just as he will never betray them. In that way, he is closest to being a human in that he has _friends_, loyal friends who would willingly follow him into hell itself for the sake of what they share.

And for what?

He ponders this as he hangs, pinned to the concrete cross like some fallen-angel messiah. He ponders the deaths of his followers, trusting to the end, at the hands of a brother he never knew. _Goodbye, Dogman, Oxman, Snakegirl, everyone. Wait for me in hell; I'll join you there, eventually... just let me get free of this fix... I'd bring you the best gravestone offering in the world. _

The world is not enough. It never has been.

For one sickening moment he contemplates giving in, submitting to the Father-Maker's direction, a doglike peon himself. It tempts him for barely a heartbeat.

The world is not _enough_. _HIS _world will never be enough.

As the words leave his lips, he knows that he has doomed himself. All that is left of the memories that he has painstakingly gathered will disappear in the fiery wash of the boiling oil that creeps lover-like up his dangling legs. All that is left of Greed will be a collection of carbon and hydrogen atoms; all that is left of the person he was will fade away upon the heated air with his last manic defiance.

_I'LL WAIT FOR YOU IN HELL, SUCKERS! _

And the laughter turns into a scream of hellish mirth, ending in a final gush of oil and bubbles.

_Farewell, small realm; I'm off to conquer the world beyond._

----

And yeeess, I actually did like Greed. Never did know why in the world he wanted to become human… he seems plenty human enough to me already. And he died! (sniffles)

Next up: Trisha Elric! (dadadaDA!) And, as always, review to request your favorite character!


	12. Miles To Go Before I Sleep

Miles To Go Before I Sleep: A Study of Trisha Elric

_Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village, though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow. _

_My little horse must think it's queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year. _

_He gives his harness bells a shake  
To ask if there's some mistake.  
The only other sound's the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake. _

_The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep. _

_-'Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening', by Robert Frost_

It will not be long now before she leaves; she knows this in her bones, feels it in the bitter fire that pools in her limbs like the acid that her husband, the long-wandering Hoenheim, warned her repeatedly not to dust under.

Every day could be her last, could end in a burst of the blood that fills her hot and heavy with its palsied burden. And so she takes care never to cease loving her children whether they notice it or not, choking back bile to smile and call out to them, raising arms that burn with strain to hug them and holding them close so that they won't see the occasional pangs of agony that crease her face and would surely alarm them.

Never does a day pass that she doesn't say at least once, _I love you_. And so her days are filled with light and laughter and love, and it is not such a hard burden to bear, she decides, when she has two young shoulders to bear her in her time of pain.

Yet there is such a long way to go before she lies down one final time. Her young ones weigh heavily on her even as they ease the load of pain, because she knows that however intelligent they are, they are also all too much like their father to be left alone before they become self-sufficient. She once teased him, that he lived and breathed and ate books for survival; he would smile briefly while turning the next page of the latest text he had managed to procure from- somewhere. But however endearing the habit, she knows that they will neglect their diet, always an important part of a child's growing up.

(…So says the books she pestered Hoenheim to get for her when she was pregnant with Edward, then Alphonse. They also counseled her on the merits of house births, but Hoenheim was adamant; only a proper hospital birth would do, so each pregnancy was marked by a month-long trip to Dublith, which had a hospital of sorts.)

Each day is a step closer to oblivion, another day's worth of journeying that leaves her exhausted and drained. And yet there is still such a long way to go.

_Every guiding light no warmth to keep,  
__Every step a tear I weep,  
Through fire and fall and valleys deep,  
And miles to go before I sleep- _

_ And miles to go… before I sleep._

Author's note: I must confess that this chapter was VERY long in the conception but relatively short in the making. Although I had some gratituous help (read: copy-catting) from the acclaimed Robert Frost, whose contemplative poem was turned into a bit of a tragedy by yours truly. (winces) The poem heading in this chapter is the copyright of Robert Frost. The short verse at the end, however, is entirely mine, and please tell me if you want to use it for anything else.

As always, read and review! And thanks for everyone's help.

Next chapter: ……still undecided! Can someone take a vote?


	13. Peace for the Faithful

Peace For The Faithful (A Study Of Scar)

It hurts.

Life after life, blood after blood, and still it hurts.

He does not understand this, this torment that has been poured out upon his people like the apocalyptic wrath of some pagan god. All he understands is the form in which it came, with guns and bayonets and blue-clothed men who made the world burn, and what he must do to stop it.

The 'war' has ended. But his battle still continues.

It still hurts, from his very bones to the tips of his graying hair, centering in the cross-scar that is his popular namesake. Somewhere in the depths of his pain-drunk mind he remembers having another name, yet he does not recall it, nor had he any inclination to. The strong warrior monk he was,

_-the pride of the Ishvara Templars-_

-everything he had been had vanished-

_-purged in the wrath of those heathens, who shall burn in despair for ever and ever-_

-and his world fallen anew.

His skills, meant to protect, now turned to slaughtering, and he feels no amusement at the irony of it all. Laughter, even cynical humor, turns to ashes in his mouth, bitter and inhospitable. There is no solace in that, just as there is no solace in any of the refuges he has sought over the course of his long hunt.

The skills he now uses, the twisted perversions of the very ones who had brought unwonted death to his beloved land, have tainted his soul, but he is long past caring. The devout man he had once been, the righteous monk, would have fought against having to kill with such a weapon. The man he is now, silently shouting his rage to every body yielding under the pressure of his self-taught alchemy, cares not for such naïve niceties.

Yet still every night he dredges up the courage to pray to Ishvara, a god he barely even retains any sort of hope of faith for. He has learnt that Ishvara's hand can be as heavy on His own chosen people as on the bleeding heads of the infidels who dared to desecrate His lands. But do not the ancient books say, _"He is our guardian, our Father, our sanctuary"_? So he prays, though he knows his blood-stained flesh must lower him in the Almighty's estimation.

He prays, not for his hunt, or even for his safety, but for each soul of his clan who did not outlive him. Every night a new soul, as is the Ishvarite ritual, and when all the souls have been prayed to heaven, he will join them of his own accord.

Thousands died in the war. It will take him a very long time to leave this world.

_-and he will make for us cool springs of water, and name each one of his children, _

_and__ the faithful shall have peace, shall have rest-_

Time enough to bring those arrogant killers down.

Time enough to earn peace for Ishvara's faithful.

Time enough for him to scrape out his own redemption.

If only he had been so inclined.

---

Author's notes: I HATE THE NEW EDITING SYSTEM! I had to re-upload this chapter and the tags are driving me crazy. why couldn't they have kept their original upload/edit system? compare chapter 1 to this chapter... I much prefer the earlier chapters myself, in terms of formatting...


	14. For Love, For Duty

For Love, For Duty (A Study of Maes Hughes)

He grew up far away from the city, an uncomplicated farmboy whose only concerns- at the manly age of twelve- were but two: the acquisition of the people's adoration via heroic exploits in the military, and the prospect of mucking out the stables. Again.

Obviously the former had far more weight in his considerations for the future.

Enlisting had been easy. Promotion was difficult but not particularly hard; all heneeded to do was keep his ears open and discreetly build up a reputation for keeping secrets. It was his strong suit anyway; Maes Hughes was a realist after all and did not cherish the dim hope that any enemy would quail at the sight of his gleaming three-inch dagger, or even a dozen of them. (Gods above- even the Ishvarites had invented _swords_ before Amestris had approached them.)

Maes Hughes does not like big-ass weaponry, and he tells anyone who cares to listen. Or at least he used to. Promotion to the Investigative Unit shut his mouth quickly enough, and once his beloved Gracia came along, there was nothing _else_ he wanted to talk about. It was _Gracia Gracia Gracia _all day long, complete with waved photographs and shouted paeans of praise.

His colleagues refer to him in tones of mixed annoyance and respect; he's good enough at his job for the respect to just balance the annoyance. Not all of his mind is _Gracia Gracia my dove _all the time, but his almost schizophrenic shifts from manic to serious scares the hide off no few youngsters- and some of the older ones as well. He laughs at their nervousness and plots his convoluted schemes behind a screen of glossy photographs and carefully tilted glasses.

But now he isn't joking, isn't laughing. Gracia is not on his mind; his new treasure Elysia is not on his mind. There are no photographs in his hands, or even up his sleeves, just the one portrait shot of the family in his pocket diary. His very desperation bespeaks his seriousness- even now in the midst of running, his mind is awhirl with possibilities.

He's made a few promises in his not-so-long life, but this one is the most serious by far; that's all that sustains him even though his legs feel like fiery lead weights on his knees and his chest complains loudly that he is NOT a member of Amestris' military elite. To think that his enforced suffering right now is the result of a moody post-battle bar crawl…

_I'll back you to the top. I _will_ make you Dai-soutou._

His wound hurts with all the burning agony of a really deep, really serious wound, but there's too much adrenalin pumping through his failing system for it to collapse now. Not when he sees the dull gleam of a phone box up ahead- his goal, far enough from any crowded nightspots to chance a observer, but within the short distance that his tired legs can take him. He staggers the last few feet in, leans briefly on the sill to catch his breath, and begins to make his call.

There isn't enough time; he can feel it in his weary bones. Even as the switchboard girl takes his call and insists on following protocol in rerouting to the army network, he hears the clatter of boots approaching over the brick road.

And as the end comes, he sees death in the eyes of his love and accepts that this, too, is his duty. Not so much an unpleasant surprise, as an inevitable unpleasantness that he would have liked to postpone. Yet here it is, and the torn pieces of his happiness drift mutely to the ground, like curled autumn leaves on the spreading dark pool of his heart's blood.

The footsteps leave, and he remains slumped on the ground, propped up like an unwieldy puppet against the corner of the phone box. The glasses are broken, his eyes dark and shadowed with the approach of long oblivion, and his lips form words in a slow paroxysm of apology.

All this for a friend and a friend's promise.

And his dying thought is, _I hope it was worth it._

……

_…hey, what if one of us croaks before you get to the top?_

_I dunno. Maybe you can try and arrange some sort of thunderbolt if I need it?_

_Heh… what about you then? A firestorm?_

_I might fry you, you know._

_Hmm, you have a point. We'll just have to both stay alive, then._

_What about the worst case scenario?_

_…screw the worst case scenario. I want to be a grandfather, remember?_

_If you can get a woman to put up with you first!_

_I'll find a way, don't worry! Hahahaha!_

_Maes…_

_I made a promise… I'll keep it. _

_Swear?_

_I swear. Look, pinky promise…_

_You're drunk, Maes-_

_Sho are youuuu…c'mon, pinky promise!_

_Jeez, how old are you? …there. You stay alive then._

_You can be the godfather of my very first grandchild…_

……

Author's notes:

I'm not sure if Hughe's… departure is considered a spoiler, because it's actually pretty early on in the series now. Anyway, spoiler warnings apply. I dunno which chapter it was in, though. Definitely before Greed appeared? Am officially brain dead from exams, and haven't even finished them yet. Mmmblll.

Currently taking votes for the next chapter. Suggestions anyone?


	15. Walk A Mile

Walk A Mile (A Study Of Envy)

Being everyone- being no one- has never bothered him except when he has nothing else to do. Once upon a time, fresh from the infinite melting pot that was Alchemic Possibility, it had darkened his dreams- if one could call them 'dreams', those hours of sitting alone as the sun moved, lost in fantastical imaginings.

Homunculi rarely dream, however; he'd stopped quite a long time ago.

Although, by the way humans reckoned the quality he was named after, Envy finds it something of an irony that he can boast a few 'dreams' to his name. Envy itself is the all-encompassing child of greed and lust, after all; always wanting what it cannot have, yet not so much like its father that it admits its grasping nature without some redeeming, logical trick of semantics. In that, at least, envy takes after lust; it names itself a yearning which might have been beautiful but for a thin line between honor and desperation.

It's a beautiful piece of pontification, worthy of any philosopher.

It should be. He spent fifty or so of his immeasurable years considering it.

Yet, if he is to satisfy the terms of his own equation, he must wonder eternally, _what is it I want?_ in every moment that loneliness bequeaths to him. The answer is not forthcoming, and he seeks it in every gaze that his borrowed faces attract.

A loving family? _Eyes full of love and something passionate-_

-No.

Competition? _"I'll take you on, you bastard-"_

-he doesn't like getting hurt, so, no. (Well, not unless it's him doing the beating-)

It's hard for him to decide what he wants. He IS Envy, after all.

And because of his nature- _despite his nature-_ he finds himself wanting to see the world- not through his own eyes, or His eyes, but the eyes of his borrowed flesh. To have the lazy pleasure of watching grandchildren play, and ride through the endless fields, and hear the frantic beating of wings press by his ears in the dank industrialism of Central.

Envy has _time_. His Father oh-so-nicely fills it up for him.

Every so often, Envy escapes the humdrum stirrings of chaos and pulls on a new suit of flesh, a new wardrobe of memories, a different pair of shoes perhaps well worn- or perhaps new with the scent of unfamiliarity, which has its own allure to the eternally unsatisfied.

And then he takes a long walk in someone else's shoes, and forgets himself.

--------------------------------

Author's note: I wanted to use lyrics in this one, but I might get in trouble if I didn't compose them myself. Blllll. Fanfic is Fanfic! How many rules do we need? (;;) Anyway, here's Envy- I sort of like him (or at least I did before the anime. I now have selective amnesia.) All references to homunculi having children is purely rhethorical. I think.

Any votes for the next one yet?


	16. It Ain't Easy

It Ain't Easy (A Study of Jean Havoc)

_It isn't fair._

He's the loyal underdog…  
…the dedicated flunky…  
… the fly-by-night special operative...

He's somewhat appreciated.

Mustang appreciates his ability to redirect paperwork.  
Hawkeye certainly appreciates the good work he puts in.  
(Sometimes.)

He's likeable.  
Good natured.  
Passably handsome.  
(In a rugged _I am a chronic macho smoker_ kind of way.)

So_ why does he have the worst luck with women?_

It's like, like GOD has a personal vendetta with his love life.

There's always something or the other.

His looks…  
His personality…  
His lack of resemblance to certain people's elder siblings…

Just once, _just once_, he'd like to get a woman who actually _likes _him.

Argh.

It ain't easy being the flunky.

Being the flunky means that the boss gets all the girls.  
The _good _ones.  
And then the boss gets to dump them afterwards.  
(He'd have liked to be able to dump a girl for once instead of the other way round.)

_It ain't easy._

It really ain't easy.

-------

A/N:

….because Havoc needs more lurve.

Hehehehe.

Tried a change of style this time round- a sort of short, annoyed paragraphing. Like he was listing off all the things in his head while pretending he was doing paperwork. I tend to do that too… so I empathize with Havoc. Awww.

NOT A POEM. IT IS PROSE. (no matter what the formatting looks like!)

As always, read and review! And leave a note about what character you guys want next.


	17. Everyday Christmas Spirit

Everyday Christmas Spirit (A Study of Cain Fury)

--

Mustang never really thought he was suitable for the military.

_You're not soldier material, kid._

Heck, his _parents_ never thought he was suitable for the military. They didn't even think he was suitable to be _militia._ Or anything but a teacher, for that matter. Boy, they really wanted him to be a teacher. The letters they sent… pleading for him to change his mind before it was too late, telling him he was too sweet, too kind, to want to take orders from the mass-murdering heroes that ran Amestris.

But he went anyway, because there were people he needed to help.

_You know what you should do, so why aren't you doing it?_

Even the people he helps don't always understand why he does. They don't understand why he isn't married with kids, somewhere, with a peaceful job, anything that doesn't include blue starched uniforms and projectile weapons. He bears their perplexity with stoic resignation, eyes calm and slightly soulful behind his thin reading glasses.

It doesn't matter, really.

_Do you have something to do?_

Riza-chuui fills up his moping time with an endless stream of forms and paperwork, and she does her best, in that brisk no-nonsense way of hers, to make him feel like he belongs, to show him that at least one person in the entire military does think that what he does is good, and useful.

She sent him on covert intelligence training.

Taught him how to aim from afar.

By the time he came out of training, the war was over, but he knew that he had participated as surely as anyone on the front lines, because the orders to kill had passed through his hands.

He tries not to let it get him down, and succeeds, mostly. The gradual acceptance of the rest of East City Unit helps, since they're all paper-pusher-murderers together. He's still low man on the totem pole- nothing will ever change that, running errands keeps him out of the line of fire while Mustang plots countrywide domination- but he's accepted, and they accept him, and they accept what he offers to them.

It _is_ possible to give and give and expect nothing in return.

But still, in a little-boy kind of way, he's awed and honoured when Mustang commandeers his transfer, with the rest of the East City Unit confidantes, to the political jungle of Central City. It's like the Christmas present he's been waiting for _forever_. Riza-chuui's warm brown gaze rests on him, just briefly, and he beams at her without reservation.

_Everyday Christmas spirit, huh?_

It's a sign of trust, and it's the best present he's ever had.

Ever.

Even if he has to kill for real… this trust would have been worth it, and he'll prove that he was worthy of it.

_Come with me._

----

A/N: And Fury gets lurve, too. I always wondered why a sweet young thing like that took up work in the military. Reviews anyone? And suggestions for the next chapter? I think Lust's in the running…

(31/03/2006 Edit: Changed Riza's eye color after a reviewer brought it to my attention (that was a long time ago but I only got round to checking the manga scans recently… ;;) so that's done. Hopefully I got it right this time. See, reviewers _are_ valuable and very very much appreciated… thanks to '…' who told me about it. Although a signed review would have been great…)


	18. Once Upon A Time

Once Upon A Time (A Study of Izumi Curtis)

--

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who was an alchemist. She was strong and skilled and beautiful, better than a man and a legend among women (famous or infamous depending on who you talked to).

Once upon a time, she fell in love.

Once upon a time, she thought that was enough, but it wasn't, because there was a gaping hole in her heart that was child-shaped. So she said to her husband, _Honey, let's try to have some kids_, and he agreed because the house seemed awfully empty and besides, he loved her just as much as she loved him.

Once upon a time, a very long time later when the young woman was not so young anymore, she started throwing up one morning. It was the happiest morning of her life, even if most of it was spent shivering over a waste basket, her whole body in rebellion, nervously waiting for the next surge of nausea to precipitate. It marked the beginning of a new phase of her married life, after all; alchemy had nothing on this. Alchemy, for all its uses, could not create life.

Once upon a time, as the eager months flowed by, she would sit by a window, watching village children play in the market, her dark eyes soft and dreamy in a way they rarely were when she was young. The spark of life turned ripely in her womb, tightly wound around with the threads of a future without limits, a destiny that stretched further than the eye could see. She knew it would be a fierce child- unyielding to the harshness of the world it would soon come into, just like its mother, intelligent and kind like its father, their dreams made flesh in a miracle of creation. She imagined herself standing on the front step, calling a beloved name to summon her child to dinner, or lighting a candle in the window to call it home at night. Imagined the first skinned knee, the tears she would kiss away, the little hands that would tangle in her braided hair, scrawl with chalk in the fledgling beginnings of alchemy.

Once upon a time, the not-so-young woman birthed a tiny dead child and her dreams fell to ashes. The doctors could find no explanation, but the midwife needed none, just patted the crying not-so-young woman's shoulder and told her _you will have no more children_, her husky voice soft and flat with regret. The woman hated her then, hated her as only a grieving mother could and more, because she had never really been a mother, not even for one second, not even long enough to hear one tiny cry.

Once upon a time, the woman clutched the ruins of her dreams, covered with blood, and refused to accept that fate could be so cruel.

Once upon a time, she knelt in the dying embers of a rebounded transmutation- coughed black blood onto the painstakingly drawn lines, the child-shaped hole in her heart joined by several more organ-shaped ones- and learnt that yes, _fate can be that cruel_.

Once upon a time, the alchemist and her husband lived in an empty house, living sad, empty lives swept bare by the force of their shared despair, until the emptiness grew too heavy to bear. This time it was her husband who hugged her at night and said, _Honey, let's take a vacation._ And because she knew the mourning had to end sometime, she smiled up at her beloved, teeth stained with nicotine and bubbling fresh blood, and agreed.

Once upon a time, she and her husband boarded a train, saved a village, and gained two blond sons whose tears she patted away, whose knees she scraped (more than once), whose meals she cooked, whose eager hands reached out to take the knowledge she offered.

Once upon a time, she thought about the law of equivalency, and smiled.

She will probably never have a happy ever after, but she's pretty sure this isn't a bad story at all.

--

A/N: And there's Izumi. Just so everyone knows: I'M FOLLOWING THE MANGA. Which probably means I'll be back to redo Bradley's chapter and correct the portrayal (which was pretty AU before and has now been thrown completely out of the window by recent manga developments. ;;) Or do people like it just the way it is? Leave a comment, please? (wibbles)


	19. and eternity

and eternity (A Study of Lust)

--

_lila lila i love you_

this is love

_where are you going_

_what will you do_

this is love

_don't forget what you owe you stupid bitch i love younononono_

this is love

_don't run away-!_

this is... love?

_die for me lila die for me, i love you_

_i love you feed you keep you clothe you strip you hit you hold you own you_

_i love you love you hate you so much it hurts hurts hurts_

_it's okay die for me lila i-_

_i'll bring you back i promise i-_

-

She rises, calm-eyed, from the circle, pale-skinned, black-haired, dressed in black.

She feels the material whisper and slide around her, a part of her own body.

Her own clothes, not his.

The room must be cold- his eager breath mists in the air, his hands slide harshly over her flesh- she feels each hair on his arms extended fiercely in goosebumps. He makes a choked, wet noise as he crashes into a corner, startled, so startled, watching her examine herself with slow, clinical touches, as if she had not just backhanded him with almost contemptuous ease.

Her body. Not his.

She studies her hands, clean and straight- black, as if she is gloved to the upper arms, but the darkness is as much a part of her flesh as the clothes-not-clothes are. Delicate hands, not the broken, twisted ruins they once were, strong but graceful, unmarred.

Her hands. Not his.

The tips of her fingers extend smoothly with a thought, like claws- yes, like claws, like daggers, like swords.

Not his.

Another wet noise bubbles from his lips at the slow, experimental flex of her hands. Turning to look at him is reflexive, natural, instinctive. She is predator. He is prey. She will no longer allow herself to be loved.

Not anymore.

And her first smile is for the ruin of his body, the fetid stink of shredded bowel, the first scent of freedom.

For herself, finally, finally, finally.

--

And so the first Sin came.

--

A/N : I depress myself sometimes. Oh wait, no, that's NaNoWriMo. *cries*

Well, that's the first chapter in a long, long time; hopefully it isn't too bad. It's also pure speculation on my part because I stopped reading the manga after the bit where Gluttony goes apeshit. Sorry :

Next one will probably be Scieszka (which I will probably end up spelling Sheska) just because someone asked for it. Yeah. *shifty eyes*


	20. Dear Myself

Dear Myself (A Study of Sheska)

--

It's okay.

You're a big girl, and you won't cry anymore.

Books are your first love, your first lover, have always been, always will be.

People get fired. And even if getting fired feels worse than the books make it out to be, the books say it will be okay. There will be other times. Other jobs. More books.

It's okay.

You're fourteen, a big girl.

You won't cry anymore.

It's okay.

-

It's okay.

You're a young woman, a grown-up girl, and you don't cry anymore.

Books are your dark temptation, your dark tempters, always calling, always drawing.

People get fired all the time; you've learned that already. It shouldn't even hurt anymore- you've been through this before. There will be other times, other jobs, other books to read, and besides, you remember every book you've ever leafed through, their wisdom filtering eagerly into your mind and making the war, all wars, like distant fairytales, vague bad dreams. Even if you didn't understand before, you can always think back, run the fingers of memory over the feel of worn pages, understand it later.

The smell of burning flesh is strange, like barbecue done halfway, and the smell of scorched blood gives it that unmistakable reek that distinguishes it from frying meat. It's the first time you smell flesh burn alive, the first time you smell books burn. It's not the first time you run, and it's not the first time you hide, and it's not the first time you get away.

It is, however, the first time your reading has nearly killed you, because if you hadn't been engrossed in _A History of Xerxes: The Phantom City_ you would have heard the explosions, the gunshots, the screaming, the roar of flames. It's the first time you regret enjoying reading so much because your former boss, who yelled at you and hit your arm and finally tore the book from your hands to get your attention, is now part of the stinking barbeque and roaring tinder pile that was your former workplace.

You could've been part of that, too.

It's okay.

You're sixteen, a young woman, a grown-up girl.

You don't cry anymore.

It's okay.

--

It's okay.

You're a grown-up now, an independent woman, with rank and a uniform to back it up. Of course you're not crying.

People die all the time; you've learned that already. Books are much better, and they stay in your mind for much longer than the babbling, transient beings that appear occasionally to order you around, take your things, talk with you and laugh with you and show you pictures of their daughters and crow in delight at what ravishing sunlight-touched beauties they will be when they grow up.

That's a lie though.

No matter how hard you apply the heel of your hand to the traitorous moisture that makes your vision blur, the tears keep coming, because this one man- this one man, with his cunningly tilted glasses and dramatic declarations and multitudes of lovingly laminated photos- this man was the one to take your hand and drag you around on your first day in your current job, half deadly serious, half casual mentor and all loving gushing father asking what you think _lovely darling Alicia my sweetiepie_ would love for her _Happy Happy Unbirthday_. This man, one among many humans who finally seemed real to you after such a long, long time, is dead, and of course you're not crying, of course you're not.

You really wish he could have lived to see his little daughter turn twelve, to see her first date, to beat off the boys and brandish a rifle like he always said he'd do. Look at the girl- she doesn't even understand that Daddy's dead- her mother is doing enough crying for both of them, and damn if you can see more because everything is a hazy wash of color and you've given up on trying to dash the tears away.

It's okay; it'll be okay.

Of course you're not crying.

You're twenty-two, grown-up, independent, even if your face hurts with the effort of trying not to cry, because you aren't crying. It's just- raindrops.

Of course you're not crying. You don't cry anymore.

Even if you are.

But it's okay.

Somehow you're sure he understands.

----

A/N: I can't really say anything meaningful after this. Maybe I'm PMSing? D: Or maybe I'm just tired? Yeah, that's probably it.


End file.
